


Speakerphone

by orphan_account



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Drinking, Drunk Dialing, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, JT is a dick at first but only because he's drunk and sad, JT needs a hug, Malcolm is also kind of a dick at first but he's doing his best okay, Malcolm is willing to give it to him, Pre-Slash, they're both trying their best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-16 00:29:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21498883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “It’s late and you woke me up.” He wasn’t going to pretend that wasn’t a lie. JT was probably too drunk to call him on it. “You’ve already wasted my time, at least have the dignity to finish what you were going to say.”There was a faint chuckle on the other line followed by another sniffle. When JT spoke, his voice was quiet. “I called you because I need to know how you do it. How you can go home and just...go to bed, after what you see?”After a case goes wrong, JT drinks.Malcolm deals with the fallout, more willingly than he’d expected.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel
Comments: 28
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [batonblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/batonblue/gifts).



> There will definitely be a second chapter, I just need to mull over some JT headcanons first.
> 
> This is a prompt fill for Batonblue, one of the pioneers of this pairings. Everyone read her story Smoke and Mirrors. Feel feelings about it.
> 
> Please send me prompts if you have any itch you want scratched, I cannot get these two out of my head.
> 
> Be warned that there's the bombing of a church at the beginning of the story, but there isn't anything graphic. It may come up more in the second chapter (you'll see why), but I'll give a heads up if that's the case.
> 
> I hope you like it!

It wasn’t JT’s fault.

They’d reached that conclusion unanimously, immediately, because JT was tough, but he couldn’t stop an explosion, no matter how much he prayed. Malcolm had the thought that he probably _was_ praying even before the bomb went off.

It didn’t matter that no one blamed him, and they both knew it. Malcolm had known him for less than a month, but he could have stumbled upon the scene a total stranger and still see the devastation in his eyes. JT’s knees had hit the earth before the smoke had settled, the impact creating two little clouds of dust that were quickly subsumed by the larger one that rolled across the dry earth outside the church.

Malcolm looked to Dani, eyes wide and dry with grit. She glanced back for a moment, then started towards the building in a dead sprint only to come up short at JT’s desperate “ _No!_ ” He grabbed blindly for Dani’s arm, using it to haul himself up. With a rough hand to her shoulder to push her back towards Malcolm, he stumbled forward, disappearing into the church. Dani was on his heels in a heartbeat, leaving Malcolm to frown at the space they’d occupied a moment before, trying to remember a prayer. Any prayer.

* * *

JT wouldn’t talk to anyone after they got back to the precinct, and Dani had smacked Malcolm in the chest when he went to offer him a hand, his brain rationalizing it as the appropriate thing to do, since clearly a conciliatory hug was over the line.

He just went into Gil’s office, shutting the door hard enough to make Dani wince. Neither of them saw him leave, but the look on Gil’s face told them what they needed to know.

“How long?” Dani asked quietly, looking smaller than Malcolm had ever seen her with her arms tucked around herself instead of crossed.

“Two weeks. More, if he needs it.” Gil blew out a breath, then cut Malcolm a sharp look. “I don’t need to tell you to be sensitive about this,” he said, which was Gil for _I feel like I need to tell you something you should already know._ Malcolm tried not take it personally. Gil was taking it just as rough as JT was, judging by the tight pink rings around his eyes.

All three of them stayed late tracking down what next of kin they could while Edrisa worked on identifying a few of the bodies, including Miles Marshall, their killer. There was nothing else they could do.

* * *

Malcolm wasn’t sleeping when his phone rang, but he still nearly fell off the bed with how hard he started. He grabbed for it and squinted at the screen, blinking against the sudden brightness. It wasn’t a number he recognized, but it had a New York area code. He accepted the call, raising the phone to his ear and bracing himself for his father’s voice. “Hello?”

“It’s Bright, yeah?”

He frowned at the dark wall, bright spots swimming in his vision. That voice sounded familiar. “Last I checked.”

“What the hell is your problem, man?”

“JT?” Malcolm tucked his phone against his shoulder with one hand and gathered a fistful of sheets in the other, pulling them up around his shoulders as he sat back, the headboard cold against his bare back.

“Yeah, you remember me?” JT’s voice was a little too loud and Malcolm could make out the faint sound of a television running in the background. Tipsy? He wasn’t at a bar; there wasn’t any music or voices in the background. Not a restaurant, either. They’d probably have kicked him out by now based on the decibels he was boasting. “Or did you forget me already?”

“No, why would I–”

“I probably didn’t leave much of an impression, since I haven’t committed mass murder.”

Heat begin to rise in Malcolm’s chest, charging his blood with the same fury it always did when someone compared him to his father. JT wasn’t there yet, but he could feel it coming. “Listen, if you think I’m not gonna hang up on you if–”

“Until today, I guess. Right?”

The heat died and he missed it already. This had gone a different direction than he’d expected, and it had gone there fast. He’d gotten used to the anger, he’d even made a game out of guessing what people were going to use against him when they learned about his relationship to Martin Whitly, to the infamous Surgeon. It was much harder to be on the receiving end of sadness. It wasn’t a Sheriff he could punch. _Accept that there are things you can’t control_ , his card had read this morning. “That isn’t what happened.”

“Isn’t it?” JT asked, then in the same breath, “You didn’t answer my question.” His voice slurred noticeably. Definitely drunk.

Malcolm shifted, grimacing as his skin unstuck from the headboard. “Jog my memory.”

There was an unpleasantly loud clatter of JT’s phone being disturbed, like he’d dropped it on something hard. Malcolm could picture it with ease: the detective’ fine motor skills deteriorating to the point that he had to set his phone down. Malcolm was probably on speakerphone, which wasn’t a horrible idea, actually. Pulling his phone from its position at the crook of his neck, Malcolm set it in his lap and hit the button just in time for JT’s harsh voice to fill the room. “I said, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Not a question he was unfamiliar with. “I get asked that a lot,” He said, “Can you be a little more specific?”

“People _died_ today, Bright, and you didn’t give a shit. Just stood there, didn’t even try to look for survivors.” The ‘s’ in ‘stood’ dragged on for a moment, like JT had had to wrestle with his mouth to get the sound out.

“If Marshall survived, he would have tried to flee the scene. Someone had to be there to stop him.” Malcolm answered quickly, swallowing. He wasn’t about to admit that he was afraid of _churches,_ of all things. _Your dad’s going to hell and so are you_ , kids at school had said, and Malcolm couldn’t argue with that logic. Even though he knew hell wasn’t real. His family had money; they didn’t need faith.

There was an audible pause, an audible swallow, and an audible _clink_ as a glass was set down. Malcolm glanced at the clock on his bedside table as he waited. 2:18. Still early.

“You tried to shake my hand. You didn’t give a shit! You tried to _shake my hand_. Who _does_ that?” JT’s voice rose in volume and pitch and Malcolm winced away from his phone, more from the tone than the volume.

 _Are you afraid of men, Malcolm?_ Dr. Le Deux had asked him once at a young age as he peeled the waxy paper labels off crayons. It was supposed to be art therapy. Malcolm _hated_ art therapy. Why would he want to _draw_ his nightmares? _Is that why you don’t fight back when your classmates push you?_ No. Even then, he knew any violence would just be used against him. _Malcolm Whitly punched me, he’s gonna send his dad to kill us!_

He’d learned to lean into violence over time. Not only was it fun to punch bastards at bars, what was the point of feigning pacifism if all anyone would see in him was his father? If they were set on paring him down to the Surgeon’s image, there wasn’t anything he could do to stop them. So why bother? Dr. Le Deux had referred to that as a ‘breakthrough’ when he’d first mentioned the decision to her.

“I thought it would be a bad idea for me to try to hug you. You don’t exactly strike me as someone who’s in touch with their feminine side.”

“Man, fuck you. All you _are_ is your feminine side.” It was a knee-jerk reaction, a cut and paste catchphrase of toxic masculinity. It came so quickly that it was obviously a line that had no real heat behind it, but it still made Malcolm scowl at the sheets. Of all the low-hanging fruit to pick.

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait, wait, you still didn’t answer me! And I have a follow-up question.” JT’s voice was loud again, but instead of angry, almost victorious. Like a predator seeing its prey stumble. “How fucked up do you have to be to try and _shake my hand_ for killing a bunch of people? Is that something you inherited?”

Malcolm was halfway to his feet, mouth open to shoot back _were_ you _born an asshole, or did they brainwash that into you in the military_ when _killing a bunch of people_ hit him. “What?”

“Is that something you inherited, not caring–”

“Yeah, I heard that, asshole, I meant–” How was he supposed to phrase this? He took a deep breath in through his nose, out through his mouth. “JT. Do you blame yourself for what happened?”

The quiet that followed was so long Malcolm would have thought JT had got up and left if it wasn’t for a single, muffled sniffle. Malcolm rubbed at his forehead and picked up his phone, switching it off speakerphone to hold next to his ear. “Do you think _I_ blame you?” That wasn’t as important, but he wanted to know. If that was the case, it would be so much easier to put this conversation to bed.

“I don’t care what you think.” JT’s voice was rough. The image of him crying was a bizarre one that made something unpleasant twang in Malcolm’s chest.

“Is that why you called me?”

“ _No_ ,” JT said, voice petulant. “I called you because–oh, fuck it.” Another series of clinks from the detective’s end. An ice cube moving in a glass?

“It’s late and you woke me up.” He wasn’t going to pretend that wasn’t a lie. JT was probably too drunk to call him on it. “You’ve already wasted my time, at least have the dignity to finish what you were going to say.”

There was a faint chuckle on the other line followed by another sniffle. When JT spoke, his voice was quiet. “I called you because I need to know how you do it. How you can go home and just...go to bed, after what you see?”

Malcolm couldn’t help but laugh. Probably harder than the circumstances warranted. “I don’t sleep.”

“You just said–”

“I was lying, _detective_. I don’t sleep, I go to therapy two times a week and fixate on work.” _I don’t drink about it_ , he thought about saying, but that seemed cruel. But he should probably still bring it up. “Have you eaten tonight?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

 _So that’s a no_ , Malcolm thought, opening his closet to grab the shirt closest to the door and switching his phone between hands to button it up. “Get yourself some water and text me your address. If you don’t, I’ll call Gil to get it, then I’ll get suspended, too.” He smiled to himself and delivered the final blow: “Then I’ll have a lot more time to hang out with you.”

JT groaned audibly, and a moment later Malcolm’s phone gave the cheerful _ding_ of a text arriving. “Drink some water,” he said, crouching to snag the pants he’d shucked off on the floor earlier that night. “I’ll be there in a bit.”

Before he left, he grabbed the day’s card from its stack. _Accept that there are things you can’t control_. It might be the thing JT needed to hear tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

Getting soup was harder than Malcolm had expected. He’d taken a cab to a Panera, recalling the praises Ainsley had sung about their chicken noodle, and had sat in the car in silent confusion before he realized the reason the lights were off was because the restaurant was closed. Because it was nearly three in the morning. “Um,” He said to the driver who was politely trying not to show judgement, “Do you know anywhere that’s open that sells soup?”

It was a Walmart, it was microwavable soup, and he’d tipped the cab driver heavily when ducking out of the car. He paused on the curb for a moment, frowning, wondering for the first time if soup was going to be enough. Soup was for sick people, not drunk people. Should he have gotten fast food?

The apartment was nondescript, close enough to the precinct to be an immediate reminder of JT’s dedication to the job. He probably needed it in his life as much as Malcolm did. He couldn’t say for sure, but honorable discharge due to injury seemed likely. JT didn’t strike him as the type of guy to give up on anything, especially his obvious protective inclinations. He was a man with a calling he wasn’t about to abandon, injuries or no injuries. Something invisible. Chronic pain? PTSD? If it was PTSD, that would be something for them to bond over, Malcolm thought bleakly.

The door to the lobby opened easily, unlocked. The door to the stairwell was, too, and Malcolm double checked the address JT had sent him before heading for the second floor. High enough to see what’s happening outside but not so high as to prevent him from getting out quickly if the detective needed to. There was a plain, wordless welcome mat outside the door with traces of old mud, and Malcolm braced one hand against the doorframe to quickly check the bottom of each shoe. He wasn’t going to track dirt into another man’s home, that was just rude.

Passing inspection, he straightened, extending a hand to knock twice. Any less would sound like an accident; any more would suggest an urgency that would probably just wind JT tighter. There was the sound of movement and a swear then JT was at the door, wearing a gray undershirt and jeans. A _wet_ gray undershirt. Malcolm blinked dumbly. He’d assumed JT was fit by virtue of his job, but wet pectorals under a tight shirt looked very different than ones under a looser shirt and a jacket.

“I spilled my drink,” JT muttered, defensiveness clear in his voice. Malcolm relaxed a bit: much better for JT to think he was judging him than ogling him. “The knocking scared me.”

“I would have thought you didn’t get scared,” Malcolm said with a quick smile, stepping inside when JT opened the door wider, “what with the whole macho schtick.” He toed off his shoes without the aid of sight, attention focused on the apartment. It was a one-room with all the markings of a bachelor pad: practicality over appearance. There was a pile of mail on a small table by the door, handwritten addresses as well as manufactured, and dumbbells and kettlebells lined up next to a gray couch. In front of it was a low coffee table, across from it a flat screen television with a dusty console and controllers beside it. No chairs, no kitchen table. No art on the walls.

There were pictures, though: framed shots of JT’s former platoons, who Malcolm assumed was his family (a single mother, two younger sisters, a grandmother), and himself with an ageing german shepard. The crowning jewel was his police academy graduation certificate, proudly displayed and larger than the other frames. A visual display of his priorities, lined up for the rare guest to see. Malcolm would wager he didn’t have company over often.

The sound of ripping pulled his attention back and he followed the noise to JT in the kitchen, tearing paper towels from a naked roll to dab at his shirt. He grabbed another fistful after throwing the first away, returning to the couch to mop up spilled beer off the coffee table with a scowl on his face.

“I’ll get you another one,” Malcolm offered quickly before his brain caught up with his mouth. _Don’t offer a drunk person more alcohol_ , he admonished, but at least it gave him access to the kitchen. He read the instructions for the soup quickly before placing it inside the microwave, substituting a paper towel across the top when he couldn’t find the splatter guard.

“Help yourself,” JT grunted just as Malcolm opened the fridge door, so he reached for two beers, surveying the other contents. It was mostly microwavable meals with a few essentials, milk and eggs.

Malcolm lingered until the microwave went off, moving quickly to open the door before it could beep more than once. If JT had a headache, he didn’t want to make it any worse. He touched the outside of the bowl carefully, then shook his sleeve down over his hand to create a makeshift oven mitt. He carried it gingerly to the coffee table, holding both beers by the necks in the other hand. “Be careful,” he said, setting everything down, “It’s hot. Where are your spoons?”

“Top drawer to the left of the sink.” JT reached for the beer first.

When Malcolm returned with the spoon, he practically had to force it into the detective’s hand then slid the bowl directly under his nose. JT shot him a withering look, _I don’t need you babysitting me_. Malcolm stared back, _obviously you do_.

When he caved, Malcolm rounded the table to sit at the edge of the other cushion, careful not to let their knees touch. Just in case JT was going to take it as a congratulatory bump, not at all because he was afraid it would send the wrong signal. His shirt was drying, but it would be a while still until it was fully dry. _You can’t look at him like that_. Malcolm twisted the top off his beer and took a drink, trying not to grimace; his taste had changed towards dark liquor years ago. _He’s drunk_. And even if he wasn’t, if he caught Malcolm staring, he might punch him in the jaw.

Malcolm nursed his beer as JT ate, relieved that he dug into it after a few reluctant bites. “Sorry it isn’t something better,” He said, absently rubbing the bottle between his hands, watching the condensation rise and fall from the warmth of his palms. “There wasn’t anywhere open this late.”

“It’s fine,” JT dismissed, catching a rogue drop of soup that had begun to roll down the corner of his mouth. “Nice of you to bring me anything.”

Malcolm straightened, warmth blooming in his chest before falling to make anxious sparks light in his stomach. He was waiting, he realized, for a catch. Some harsh words thrown back in his face for no other reason than the tense nature of their relationship. For a return to questions about Malcolm’s sanity. When they didn’t come, he sagged back against the couch in relief, returning to his beer. It was getting better with each sip, even if his hands were making it increasingly lukewarm. When he looked up from a particularly long drink, JT was staring, spoon in the empty bowl. Malcolm lowered the bottle from his lips slowly, a _what is it?_ already forming, but JT spoke before he could ask.

“Do you think I’m pathetic?” He gestured vaguely, his own beer in hand, “You said it earlier, I’m supposed to be macho.”

“I don’t know if _supposed to be_ is what I was–”

“Last I checked, this isn’t something macho men do.” He set down his beer abruptly, rubbing his hands on his thighs. His breath caught and Malcolm looked over in alarm to find the detective’s eyes wet, tears refracting the light of the overhead. “They warn you about this, you know, when you’re discharged. Tell you not to drink. Tell you you’ll get lost in it.”

Memories of Mother’s constant reliance on a glass or pill bottle she somehow always had in her hand rose behind Malcolm’s eyes and he sat up, careful to move slowly. “How bad is it?” He asked, pitching his voice low and quiet. There wasn’t anyone to overhear their conversation, but it felt private anyway.

“Don’t worry about it, Bright, I’m just thinking out loud.” JT fell back into the couch with enough force that Malcolm bounced a bit in his seat.

“You can call me Malcolm, you know. You don’t always have to be working.” He added the second sentence hastily; it made for a good segue. “We’ve worked a few cases together, right?” He shifted to be able to look JT in the eye, more or less, pushing past his usual dislike of direct eye contact. “You’ve saved my skin more than once and you’ve stopped multiple killers. A lot more, I bet, before I came around.” He dug into his coat pocket, pulling out the card. He smoothed a bent corner before handing it over. _Accept that there are things you can’t control_.

“You’re not pathetic.” He continued, “You’re a good detective who’s saved a lot more people than you give yourself credit for. Try to focus on that.”

_You saved a lot of people, calling us when you did,_ Gil had told him, eleven years ago, crouching before him in the family home.

JT took the card, rough fingers made clumsy brushing Malcolm’s own. “Thanks, Malcolm.” He said with a weak smile, the sound of his name in his mouth sending a little thrill down Malcolm’s spine, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Malcolm hid a smile behind his beer, watching JT read and reread the card, his eyes drying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. More Brimel will be coming your way soon, but if you want to see it sooner, feel free to drop a prompt!
> 
> As always, great love and gratitude to everyone who's commented and left kudos. Y'all rock.

**Author's Note:**

> A little plug: batonblue made a Brimel discord, so if you want to talk about this magnificent ship, feel free to join us at https://discordapp.com/channels/647677286509969408/647677286509969411.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * A [Restricted Work] by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account) Log in to view. 




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